


Parakeet

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-02 23:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4077568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tauril is given a chance to visit her Lindir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parakeet

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for sir_nemo’s “Tauriel/Lindir would be hella attractive couple” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/10731.html?thread=22254315#t22254315).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Imladris is beautiful, though it lacks the frequent excitement of the Greenwood, and the stars seem less contrasted by the dark with too many open roofs and too few shadows. She still enjoys walking amidst the open gardens and sampling the new sights, and she enjoys the different foods, even if wine is woefully under poured. She carries her bow though there’s never any need for it here: it would simply feel strange to be without.

There’s less need for guards in a purely Elven world such as this, and King Thranduil moves freely about with no special watch. At first, the free time is disconcerting. But Tauriel quickly fills it in with her favourite of treats—something she so rarely gets to have, and wouldn’t manage at all if it weren’t for Elven immortality. They have patience, and they can wait. She can sit against a man she hasn’t seen in years and still feel right at home, though this elf in particularly rarely changes. 

Lindir has his own duties to complete. But Lord Elrond simply less demanding and has apparently allowed his attendant to spend extra time with their guests—“He is very understanding,” Lindir explains, with that note of reverence in his voice that always comes when he speaks of his beloved lord. Tauriel is less in awe of her own king, though she, of course, still looks up to him tremendously. Few servants can match the devotion of Lindir, who tells her, “He even asked me of you, and how we were, though I have little to report. ...I confessed to him that I sometimes worry for these visits, for you have done so much and I so little, but he counseled me that fretting would do more harm than good.”

“He is right,” Tauriel replies, wanting to laugh. Lindir has worshipped her too much from the moment they began, though in the wake of the lesser treatment she receives in her own home, she can’t deny enjoying his attentions. Even now, he waits on her, perched at the end of the bench with his knees around hers, his talented fingers weaving new braids into her long hair. He twists flowers into it: a luxury guards don’t usually afford. But Lindir has the gift of making things beautiful, and Tauriel revels in it while she can. It feels good to have loving fingers running once more through her hair. It’s been too long. While he combines two braids from either side of her ears, she sighs, “But you having nothing to fear. You have your own talents that I value and could not match, and I look forward to seeing you each time I come.”

She can tell form the sound of his exhalation that Lindir is smiling. He smiles easily, or at least does so around her, and it looks so very good on him. The fingers finish their work, and he brushes out the ends, leaning over her shoulder to press a chaste kiss to her cheek and murmur, “And I look forward to you, Tauriel.”

She smiles in return. Then she lifts her feet to the bench, pushing her legs along it and straightening out, her body falling back against him. He cushions her, and she slips down to lie with her head in his lap, the open skies of the mountains clear around them. She can hear the slow rush of fountains in the distance and the chatter of birds and smell the many different flowers entangled with one another. It’s such a relaxing, homely place that she sometimes wonders how she manages to leave. 

Looking up at his kind face, she asks, “Will you sing me a song?”

He brushes a few red strands behind her ear. Unlike him, she wears no metal circlet; her lord hasn’t given her such an honour. He asks, “Would you have me fetch my harp?” but she shakes her head slowly; they would have to part for that, and she’s too relaxed to move.

Lindir straightens out. He takes a deep breath of the warm summer air and seems to ponder, perhaps what to sing. “Should I compose a song of your own great deeds?”

“No,” she laughs, “Oh please, not that.” She can only imagine what he’s heard from others, but he always thinks her conquests grander than they are. But that’s the trouble with having a prince for a friend and such royalty professing her greatness. At Lindir’s indulgent grin, she suggests, “Just a song of Rivendell. Something you would sing to your lord.”

Lindir dips his head in respect, seeming to understand. Then he parts his pink lips, and a melody spills out of them, lilting and sweet like effervescent honey. She hears the words peripherally but listens more keenly to the sheer sound of Lindir’s voice. She misses this whenever she leaves, though she knows they’ll always meet again. No one serenades her like he does. 

He sings her many verses, and she allows her eyes to close, basking in it. He plays with her hair as he sings, and she enjoys the soft touch as much as the beautiful music. He dotes on her. She only opens her eyes when she hears the approach of footsteps that must come from one of her own—the elves of Imladris seem to have a different gate to her. 

Lindir allows his song to die off when Feren approaches them. He gives a respectful bow as penance for interrupting, though Lindir and Tauriel are both close servants of greater elves and knew all their time was borrowed. Feren announces quietly, “You have been summoned, Tauriel.”

She nods, and Feren retreats to the edge of the platform, allowing her a private leave. It’s a pain to sit up and out of Lindir’s lap, but she does it. She feels more tired for the rest. She turns to press a soft kiss to his lips that he returns: a mere prelude to later. When they part, he murmurs, “Visit me again, if you can.”

“We will not be leaving now,” she promises, “And I will come to your rooms tonight if I cannot get away before. But you had best come visit me next time, my Lindir.”

He grins so broadly that it reaches his eyes, and he nuzzles his nose once against hers, promising, “I will when I can, my Tauriel.”

He rises from the bench with her, though they go separate ways. He’ll likely gravitate back to his lord’s side, and she reaches Feren, the two of them leaving together down the cobbled steps. When they’ve left the garden behind, Feren observes, “He is pretty.”

Tauriel replies happily, “Yes, and he is mine.”


End file.
